Months Past; March 11 2022

It’s been months. For that, I am so sorry. I haven’t had the emotional bandwidth to maintain a blog, given the heaps of anxiety and trauma that’s dogged me for… well, basically all this time between posts.

Here’s the big situation for those not in the know:

On January 13th, around 5:30 PM, I heard something bang against my kitchen window while I was making dinner. I looked up to see a gun pointed at me, a man shouting at me to get down on the floor. The door to my basement apartment was broken down. My roommate, loudly and clearly answering questions asked by a member of the SWAT team, and repeating that there was a three year old – my daughter – present in the living room.

There was a point in which I was certain I was just going to be shot. Two different men were giving me conflicting directions; to stay on the ground, to come to the front door. Every twitch was met with another bang of the gun against the now-broken window. I had this whole thought process in this prolonged period of numbness, this grim acceptance where I thought, hey, with any luck, I won’t die. Maybe my kid won’t have to lose her dad tonight. Maybe I can come back from this.

I wasn’t shot, but my roommate – who was cooperating – was assaulted. We found out when things settled a little that they were raiding our apartment because of a homicide they’d linked our specific address to. We found out the following day that their evidence was shaky at best and promptly started pursuing legal action.

Nothing’s come of this yet, but it’s still in my head. Every vulnerable moment – when I’m changing, showering, injecting my testosterone – I wonder if I’ll be dragged outside without my clothes on or with a needle still in my ass. I wonder when I cook if I’ll be forced to leave the oven or stove while it’s still on and start a fire. I have nightmares in which my kid was with me in the kitchen, just out of sight at first, and her sudden movement surprises the SWAT guy with a gun to pull the trigger. Hell, she didn’t know until that day that police could barge into your house. She wouldn’t have known before then to get on the floor and stay there.

Since then, there’s been more, naturally. Life never quits. My bedroom floor’s been destroyed following yet another flood, and I still can’t really use my room as a result. Irreplaceable items from my childhood were ruined in that one, and I’m not over that yet. And, of course, I feel stupidly guilty for fretting about my issues when there’s a literal war raging, which creates a cycle of acknowledging my anxiety and guilt does nothing productive, nor does it prove anything to anyone, but then I feel worse for feeling like this and that’s just a spiral leading down to a hell of my mind’s creation.

As usual when I’m having crises, I’d appreciate help – my ko-fi is here, but I more than understand if no one can donate right now, especially when money should be going to efforts in Ukraine. If you have links or info on how to help Ukraine you can and absolutely should drop links in the comments, but if you can spare anything afterwards, I can’t even say how grateful I’d be.

Stay strong, y’all.

R. HavenComment